


Moments (ago)

by dulcemori



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, RPF, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcemori/pseuds/dulcemori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They wear the façade like a carefully woven cloak meant to protect from the elements, but sometimes...sometimes the mask slips away. Sometimes the draw is just too strong, the need to touch, to feel too great; even just a stolen glance when they think no one is watching has become a scandalous endeavour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments (ago)

**Author's Note:**

> God, I hope this isn’t considered within the realm of Batshit Crazy, but I’m afraid it just might be. Especially when I admit to this being my headcanon. I love the song Moments, and taken in this context, with a more metaphorical “fall” at the end, I think it fits well for these two.  
> I wish I could say this is a fill for my Kink Bingo, because then I'd at least have two squares boinked off. Unfortunately, it's just my own gratuitous therapy.  
> Oh, God, please don’t send me straight to Hell for this. I do not own these boys, I make no claims of this being “zohmygaaad the set-in-stone-absolute-truth-of-the-highest-order-of-truths!”  
> Please forgive me.

All he'd have to do is say it. Just say the word and the carefully constructed house of cards would come tumbling down around them. No walls in their way. No obligations or responsibilities. No expectations.

Just the two of them.

Paul's right, though. There's no escaping public attention. Not anymore. And as much as they pretend it's all just a big joke to them, people see through it.

They wear the façade like a carefully woven cloak meant to protect from the elements, but sometimes...sometimes the mask slips away. Sometimes the draw is just too strong, the need to touch, to feel too great; even just a stolen glance when they think no one is watching has become a scandalous endeavour.

They've worked too hard, the lot of them, to let everything slip through their fingers now, on what Paul refers to as a hormone-driven whim.

Louis knows it's more than that. It may have started off as a close friendship, built of comfort and common interests, but it's so much more now. So much deeper.

Harry has a harder time controlling himself, they think. Blatant stares of sheer longing, thinly-veiled by an occasional mischievous smile in an attempt to curb assumptions. Paul says it's up to Louis to be the strong one, to put a stop to it all before it landslides out of their control and crushes everything they've accomplished.

Nothing is sacred. Nothing is safe. Even behind closed doors, they can't be sure they're not being watched. Privacy means nothing when you're famous. It's only in the quiet solitude of their own shared home that he feels comfortable enough to touch, to allow Harry those same liberties.

They’ve had two months of down time since the tour. Two months in which to be human — or as human as their lives will still allow — and now that time is coming to an end once again. Soon, it’ll be back to recording, rehearsing, signing, touring, attending. Louis couldn’t ask for more. Not really. He has the perfect life: a wonderful, flourishing career doing what he loves with his four best mates. What else could he expect?

He eyes Harry from his periphery, watches as his smile lights the room, as he brings laughter to all their friends, and Louis tries to stamp down the selfish thoughts of what could actually make his life better. He’s already got so much, how could he possibly want for more.

But, in a perfect world...

The last two months spent with Harry have been mostly worry-free, happy, quiet. But now it ends. They make their way back home, light moods and heavy limbs from a night of drinking with their mates.

Silent conversations have transpired between them all day, in weighted glances and the casual brush of fingertips against skin as one passes the other. Not unlike any other time they’ve been together, but each one laden with more than their typical messages of affection.

It's their last night together as just _them_ , and as soon as the door clicks shut, Harry is crowding Louis up against it, arms caging him in, body pressed hotly against his.

"It doesn't have to be..." he breathes, lips pressed against Louis' neck, trailing down to his shoulder and back up again. “I can be more careful.”

Not for the first time, Louis questions whether allowing for one more night together was too much. It's already hard enough to let go, to say goodbye even if only in one sense. He shouldn’t have allowed such closeness over the last eight weeks, but Harry makes it so easy, laying his head in Louis’ lap as they half watch one action film or another, Louis combing his fingers through Harry’s hair; cooking dinner together, trying new recipes that aren’t Harry’s signature eggs Benedict; falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms and not having to worry about who would see them in the morning. The way he tries to hold in his laughter when Louis does something ridiculous just to see his smile, biting the inside of his cheeks as one corner of his mouth tugs up, a dimple giving his smile away even when his lips don’t fully admit to it. Harry is just so easy to love.

Louis pushes Harry back, hand lingering on his chest for a beat longer than necessary. One more night, but not like this. Not the rushed, desperate need that’s already bleeding through.

He's determined to enjoy his time with Harry now while he can, before it's taken away. Intimate time together, shrouded under the shadow of impending ruin hanging over their heads.

They've discussed it at length. Harry knows Louis can't be swayed. The group is important to him. The success of their joined careers means too much to ignore. What Harry doesn't know is how much it costs Louis to go along with management's wishes, to push him away, deny his feelings...to hurt him.

A knot twists in his stomach when he remembers that first conversation they'd had about it. The spark of anguish in Harry's green-grey eyes that sent a jolt of pain straight to Louis' heart.

He'd pushed it down, knowing Paul was right; Louis had to be the strong one.

He'd never admitted to Harry how he truly felt, and now it's too late. He can only hope Harry already knows. Even without the words to carry with him.

Ignoring Harry’s confused expression, Louis reaches behind his own back and latches the door. He crosses the room, drags the curtains closed, blots out the world, cages in the thick emotions that hang heavy in the air around them. He wants nothing to remind him of the reality of their situation. He only wishes to focus on Harry; how he looks right now in this moment, his windswept hair from the short walk home, eyes glinting with desire.

Harry crosses the room, takes Louis’ hand and presses it to his chest, wordlessly conveying his understanding through the rapidly increasing beat of his heart. Louis swallows down the tears threatening to escape, curls his hand round the back of Harry’s neck, and tries — _tries_ — not to acknowledge that this is all goodbye as he pulls him in for a tender kiss.

He doesn’t want to have to hide how he’s feeling tonight. He won’t say it, not out loud, but Harry will know. He’s got to know.

They cook dinner together, but neither of them eat, spend the evening carefully close even though neither of them would admit to doing so deliberately, brushing against one another, in the kitchen as they move about, fingers casually grazing skin just as they do when they’re on stage. They watch _Love, Actually_ because it’s ridiculous and it’s Harry’s favourite film, and it just seems fitting. They don’t talk about _them_ or _this_ or what’s happening, and the only vague indication of anything remotely near it is the way Louis’ heart seems to be lodged permanently in his throat and Harry’s resolute, “Love actually is all around... even if it’s not the kind you expected or hoped for,” at the end of the film.

They go to bed together, slowly undressing each other as if they haven’t already had all the time necessary to memorise every line and curve of each other’s bodies. Hands tremble as they graze skin, softly touching and leaving a wake of warmth that will surely linger for a lifetime.

Harry flops down in the centre of the bed, naked and waiting, exuding the type of raw confidence that only _he_ is capable of.

Louis watches him, heart breaking, and tries not to think about how much tomorrow will hurt, about the fact that they’re inseparable even if they can’t be together, about the time they spend together on the road, about the home they share...

Louis doesn’t even know where “home” is anymore, he’s so lost, and the thought is making him sick. Harry has been home for him for so long now. Louis has been idly drifting through thoughts and memories over the past weeks, barely holding himself together with _here_ and _now_ , taking things not only one step at a time, but one _moment_ at a time. And as he kicks his trousers off and climbs into bed, he realises that he has his answer. It’s here, in this moment, with no thought of past or future. Not a physical place at all. _Time_ has become his home. An isolated fragment inside his own mind where he still has some semblance of control. It feels as if his heart is beating only for this time and no other. There’s nothing beyond tonight for them, so Louis will stay right here in the safety of this moment.

Refracted lights dance across the room from a dim streetlamp breaking through the edge of curtain. Harry’s skin, smooth and pale from limited time outdoors recently, is illuminated, inviting. Louis makes his way up Harry’s body, dropping kisses to every inch of his flesh along the way, tracing his tongue along the edges of shadows cast by the definition in his toned stomach, nipping at the sensitive underside of his arm; the star that tastes like happiness, Louis’ “Hi” that tastes like laughter. He wraps his fingers around the inked words on his wrist, _I can’t change_ , and presses his face to Harry’s shoulder so that he won’t see a tear slip down. He shouldn’t have to change who he is. He shouldn’t ever change.

Louis brings Harry’s hand to his lips, kisses the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, and then links their fingers together tightly as if to anchor himself.

Harry smiles, arches up to kiss Louis’ lips, to trace the outline with his tongue before pulling back and smiling up at him. That wicked smile that Harry wears like a mask, fools so many people with. It’s meant to be reassuring, Louis knows, but that doesn’t ease the ache in his chest at the sight of it.

His resolve nearly breaks, the words hang on the edge of his breath, so close. But Louis leans down instead, kisses them away as he presses Harry into the mattress, hand on his hip to hold him down as he slides against him.

Twisted together in their own heat, in the cocoon of the moment they’ve wrapped themselves in, they touch and kiss and taste and explore each other like they haven’t taken the time to do in so long, like time hasn’t _allowed_ them.

And when he’s finally inside, it’s as if his life flashes before his eyes the second he’s surrounded by Harry’s heat; memories of all their time together culminating into a tornado of thoughts that flicker through his mind at such a rapid speed he can’t seem to grab hold of just one, hang onto it.

"I can't," Louis whispers against Harry's lips. _I can't do this. I can't_ not _do this._

Even _he_ isn't sure of the intent behind his words.

Harry’s hand on his cheek brings him back into the moment and Louis turns his face into the touch, presses a kiss to his palm.

 _One more day,_ Louis thinks. Just one more day is all he wants. If only he could turn back the clock, freeze time in this moment, where they can be together. It’s too much responsibility for someone so young. Too much to ask of them to conform to everyone else’s expectations. How can he be expected to push Harry away when he's spent so long holding him close, keeping him safe.

How could something so perfect, so right be frowned on? How could love destroy them?

He pushes Harry down, pins him with the weight of his own body as if that’ll keep them there forever, keep them _together_ forever. He licks into Harry’s mouth, tasting their combined sorrow, deepens the kiss and refuses to part until both of them are desperate for oxygen.

... ... ... ... ... ...

“Whaddayou think it would’ve been like. For us, I mean,” Harry asks, voice low and quiet, but still shattering the silence into splinters with its hard edges. “If we... y’know... hadn’t signed.” His fingers trail along Louis’ stomach, legs still tangled together under the cool sheets.

Louis would rather not think of that at all, to be honest. Sometimes he feels as if he’s freefalling into something completely unfamiliar; something he knows won’t last long, and what he’s leaving behind, just out of reach, could have been a lifetime. But he _has_ thought about itbefore. He knows what it could have been like. It could have been forever. So simple. Just them. Harry would have been his everything, much like he is now, but can’t be tomorrow.

He tells himself that no one finds forever at such a young age; that, if not for the group, the two of them would have ended up a teenage fling that lasted for maybe a few months. But this. What they have now, even if the kissing, the touching, the _longing_ have to stop, what they have really _is_ forever.

He doesn’t sleep. Couldn’t if he wanted to. His heart is still racing.

“Why can’t I just keep you?” Harry whispers against his chest long into the night after they’ve each assumed the other is sleeping. Louis doesn’t let on that he’s awake. Not even as he feels Harry’s shoulders shake with a silent sob.

Time slips by unnoticed, unacknowledged. Until it’s there, reminding them of their obligations to the world, red-tinged sunrise seeping in through the curtains, painting the room with the colour of love, of courage, of loss.

Louis slips out of Harry’s warm embrace, allowing himself one last look before leaving the room with a  tightness in his chest and a knot in his stomach.

 _It_ will _get easier,_ he tells himself _. It_ has _to._


End file.
